JxHQ: The Way We Were
by princessebee
Summary: Harley has found a new life with the Athenian Women's Shelter and Joker has evolved to a new state of being. And both of them ARE TOTALLY HAPPY WITH THE SITUATION! Yes. Happy. Happy, happy, happy! Any questions? Parody of the current comics storylines.
1. Lost in the Amazon

_A familiarity with recent events in the comics will aid your enjoyment of this fic. No spoilers though._

**Lost in the Amazon**

"Ha! You shoulda seen it girls! What a laugh!"

Harley Quinn threw back her head and laughed uproariously. She was seated, legs out in front of her, weight on her hands, in the centre of a circle of women who'd gathered together on the mats after a hard morning's workout in the Athenian Women's Shelter.

Harley lifted a hand to her breast and adopted a mimicking tone:

"Scarface loves me! What we have is special!" She broke the mimic and shook her head. "Oy! What a kook!"

The women, of varying ages and backgrounds, half-giggled or blinked with curious eyes at the story and its teller, who wiped at her chest and face with her sweat towel.

"I suppose it was kinda sad in its way," Harley said with an air of graciousness. "I shouldn't be too rough on the chick. I mean, talk about a state of delusion – she'd sit there with her arm jimmied up this puppet's backside and look at him with this simperin' gaze – like this – " Harley pursed her lips together and fluttered her eye lashes, " – and say things like 'Oh Mr. Scarface, I love the way you handle them mooks. You sure got a powerful way aboutcha!' And then – no joke, girls – she'd get in all close to his neck and nuzzle it, yannow, and say somethin' like – 'Oh Mr. Scarface, it makes me weak at the knees when you look at me like that!' Yeah, " Harley shook her head sadly, drawing her knees up to her chest. "It sure was a sad sight. Gotta feel sorry for the girl. What a sucker!"

Holly Robinson rolled her eyes and hopped to her feet. "Well, be that as it may, we've all got a few grinning white skeletons in our closets, huh Harl?"

Harley's eyes boggled a little and she gulped, staring up at her friend. "Er – yeah, well. I'm not tryin' to judge or nothin', I'm just sayin' – well, Shug sure could use a place like the Shelter. I guess we all need to thank our lucky stars we've, uh, ended up in the bosom of the Goddess! Right, gals?"

The group of women murmured their assent and Harley leapt up to her feet, shaking out the skirt of her contemporary-styled toga.

"Woo! Well, stirrin' up old memories like that makes me feel in need of a little healin'. Who's up for a dip in the whirlpool?"

Only a couple had other commitments within the Shelter and so the group of women moved as one to the bathhouse, chattering happily together. Few noted that Harley had fallen strangely silent, worrying her lower lip with her teeth as they entered the dark, humid room.

"Hey, didn't mean to be catty back there," Holly said coming up beside Harley as they disrobed.

Harley started, then turned to her friend with a wry grin. "Catty? Gee whiz, Holl, I think I'm rubbin' off on ya!"

"Thought you'd appreciate it," Holly grinned as she hung her toga up. "Really, are you okay?"

Harley kicked off her sandals, laughing. "Am I okay? Are you kiddin', babe? I'm better than I've been in years!" Together the two women moved toward the whirlpool, which bubbled and steamed invitingly. "Really. After screwin' up my life so much, I've finally got things back on track. I mean, really, findin' the path of the Goddess has given me a sense of peace and contentment I ain't never known before!" Harley was smiling happily as she sank into the hot water, throwing back her head with a satisfied: "Ah! That's the stuff!"

"If you say so, Harl." Holly leaned her head back against the rim of the pool. "I'm proud of you, really. I mean, I never knew you before but from what I understood you were – well – "

"A doormat." Harley said flatly, her eyes shut.

"Well – "

"Nah, it's okay Hollers. It's true," Harley's eyes abruptly snapped open. "But that's the past. I've moved on from all that now. Grown up. Now I see things as they really are – were. Harley Quinn is a sucker no more." Her voice was fervent with conviction, her dampening ponytails shaking on her head with the vigour of her emphasis. Holly smiled to see it.

Harley leant back, luxuriating in the feel of the magical water swirling over her aching body. Funny, she couldn't figure why it suddenly seemed so sore and tired. There'd been a time when a sore body made her glow, made her feel owned and how right that had felt. She involuntarily shuddered, her brows creasing together.

"Come on," she murmured to herself, "feel the healin' magic, Quinn."

The chattering of the other women broke into her consciousness. One of the other women was talking about a relationship she'd left not so long ago. A man, who used to beat her. Who frightened her. But they'd loved each other, despite everything. She was thinking of phoning him.

Harley's eyes snapped open and she sat forward violently, making the water slosh and the others start in shock.

"What are ya, some kinda dummy?" She demanded of the woman, who blinked and stared at her. "You wanna get suckered back into some creep's head-jam? What, are you lookin' for an excuse to be a victim? Cos he'll give ya one!"

The other women had fallen silent and were all staring at Harley who continued passionately.

"They're all happy to do that, so long as you come crawlin' back! You really think he loves you? Ha! All that mug cares about is power – and if you go back to him, then you're enablin' that power trip." On some level Harley was aware she was repeating the words Doctor Leland had said to her a thousand times over the years and there was the slightest stammer to her voice as she continued: "But I s'pose you figure he only hits ya 'cos he loves ya – yeah, I can just see it. I bet you sit in front of a mirror, pokin' and proddin' at those bruises with a smile on ya face! Makes me sick."

"Harley – " Holly murmured, but Harley ignored her.

"There are _right_ ways to have a relationship and there are _wrong_ ways," Harley's voice was just a little unsteady, quavering as she spoke. "A proper relationship involves mutual consideration, respect, equity and an absence of violence and intimidation," she was reciting now; barely aware of the words she spoke by rote. "A relationship is comprised of two equal partners with independent needs and desires they unite for the benefit of both."

She fell abruptly silent and felt her lower lip wobble violently. The multi-hued figures of her fellow Athenians were blurred and indiscernible and she realised her eyes had filled with tears. She blinked them away rapidly to find the woman who had originally spoken darting her eyes around nervously and looking confused.

"I – I just wanted to phone him – " She stammered.

Harley stood up, water streaming off her body, feeling a little unsteady on her feet. No one spoke as she climbed out of the whirlpool and retrieved a towel from the nearby pile, wrapping it around herself. She did not stop to change, just grabbed her toga from its hook and hurried out, feeling their staring eyes following her.

"The Amazon way is the way of the Goddess," she whispered to herself as she hurried down the corridor, the air cool on her wet flesh. "Wise Athena, grant me the strength to heal myself and to face down adversity with the power of the Goddess that stems from within me!"

"Harley!" Holly's voice called out behind her and Harley broke into a run.

She dashed down the corridor, feeling the carpet pound beneath her feet, her pigtails flying behind her, clutching the towel up with one hand. She reached her room and darted inside, slamming and locking the door behind her before sinking down onto the floor.

"Breathe, Quinn," she commanded herself inwardly, and forced herself to draw in steadying breaths through her nostrils, blowing them out slowly through her mouth. "Centre yourself."

She realised with a start that she was shaking violently and pushed herself up onto her feet, heading for her adjoining bathroom.

"A hot shower is what you need, cookie," she told herself firmly. "A hot shower and a cup of good, strong peppermint tea. Oh yeah, that's the ticket!"

_A bubble-bath and an ice-cream soda…_

She ignored the jolt of yearning that coursed through her at that thought. Kids stuff.

She turned the faucet on good and hot and peeled the towel off her body, ignoring the trembling of her hands, forcing herself to hum. She pulled out her pigtails and turned to the fast-steaming up mirror to pin her hair on top of her head.

Then caught sight of the scar between her breasts.

Arrested by the sight, she paused and stared at it in the reflection. Her brow creased and her lower lip grew slack and, as though guided there by an unseen pull, one hand floated up to trace the outline of the scar.

She'd avoided the sight of it for a long time, never looking in the mirror without it being covered. It was pale pink now, almost entirely faded and she found herself filled with a prickling sorrow at that realisation. Soon it would barely be there at all and she was mildly shocked by how powerful the sense of mourning at that inevitability was.

Her finger traced the cross-stroke before following the curving length of the bottom-stroke. Once, she'd been so proud of that mark and of all it represented.

She swallowed hard and turned away, stepping into the shower stall.

"I am a strong and independent woman," her voice sounded strained and desperate as the hot water plastered her hair down, pounded her skin a bright pink. "I belong to no one but myself. I proudly stand up alone, a complete and fulfilled person."

Her voice cracked on the last word and she took in a great shuddering breath and ran her hands up through her wet hair, feeling the prickling spray of the water hit her in thousands of tiny places.

"_A relationship is comprised of two equal partners with independent needs and desires they unite for the benefit of both."_

"_But that's what it's like!" Her own voice, whining, desperately needing Doctor Leland to understand. "It's just not in the regular way!"_

"_The Joker is incapable of love," the voice was hard and cruel, crueller than his ever was for the words that it uttered. "All you represent to him is power."_

_No, no, no, NO._

Harley sucked in a heaving sob and snatched her body wash from the shower caddy, pouring it onto her loofah and scrubbing it viciously into her skin.

She'd never been able to explain it. Not to anyone's satisfaction. She'd never needed the words for herself – she'd understood, with pure intuition, the way things were.

And so had he.

Hindsight was twenty/twenty. Harley saw it all so clearly now, the years they'd spent together and it made it all the more bitter a pill because now she'd given into the system, said what they'd wanted to hear, signed away her soul to their propaganda, they'd never listen to her again.

He'd abused her. She knew that. And never just physically. As cruel as his beatings were, the way he'd toyed with her mind had been far worse. He'd enjoyed it, she knew that too, took a perverse and sickening delight in seeing her cry, strive to please him, seeing how her devotion to him controlled her so completely.

But that was the price of being by his side. And when she weighed it all up, it had seemed an equitable exchange.

No one had ever considered she'd done that. No, they'd all thought she'd just been sucked in and taken unawares. That it was beyond her to sit down and consider the abuse and come to the eventual conclusion that it was something she was willing to accept, if the pay-off was – well, _everything else_. No, to them, she was just a stupid victim. She gritted her jaw at the memories, the hours spent locked in a small therapy room, having to endure them filling her mind with their half-truths and textbook theories. He'd known she was there because she wanted to be. _He'd_ respected her more than they ever had.

Harley forced herself to whistle as she soaped up her body, scrubbing her skin so hard with the loofah it flamed red and stung. _This_ was cleansing. More so than that weirdo whirlpool. The fierce scrubbing called to mind the long-lost feeling of his hands on her body, how they had made her tingle and tremble and glow.

His hands had often been cruel, but not always in anger. And she'd loved it, hadn't she, loved it as much as his peculiar gentleness and unpredictable tenderness. Enjoyed the feeling of his teeth sinking into her flesh as much as the softness of his mouth on hers in a kiss.

But that was wrong, that was wrong. That was the wrong way to do it. Everyone said so, so it must be true.

She'd let them talk her down, bully her into submission. With the Joker she hadn't been allowed to have needs and desires, they said, she'd been forced to comply with his.

They were so convinced. How could she tell them her needs and desires had never been so utterly fulfilled as they were when they were together?

Because it was wrong. That was the wrong way to have a relationship. It was sick and unhealthy. Sick to be delirious and drunk on the idea – no, the _absolute knowledge_ – of being owned.

Owned.

She paused in her scrubbing and slumped back against the tiled wall, her hand once again rising to trace the scar, the carved _J _that rested on her chest, between the breasts he'd so often licked blood from before kissing her in a way that brought her to her final ecstasy.

They'd never seen the way she changed his life, enhanced it. How she'd kept things in order for him, saw that he was well-fed and best dressed, tended to his wounds, cheered on his jokes and hailed his grand visions. How he'd swell beneath it, smiling in a way that made her swell bright as well. And even though she'd told them, they couldn't then know how utterly satisfying it had been.

The water continued to pound against her skin, the entire bathroom now clogged with steam. A vague and distant part of her brain murmured she would use up all the hot water and the other women would be furious with her, but her more conscious self felt only the faint tickling of her finger tracing her scar.

And they'd said – a lump rose in her throat, hard and unyielding – that everything else – the soft kisses and cuddles, the playful tickling and the snuggling together to watch old movies, the nights spent dancing away, laughing deliriously, the way he'd made her pulse in ecstasy against him over and over again, the times he'd sought her out and brought her little trinkets or given her an important part to play, even how nurturing he'd been and how solicitous in her education – all of that, they claimed, had been no more than fantasies she'd concocted to cope with the horror of her situation. Fevered delusions, dreamed up in pain or fancy. None of it real. Just figments of her imagination. No matter how hard she protested, they insisted she had to acknowledge her memories were false.

They'd told her she had to find her own voice, heedless of the fact they were silencing her completely.

It didn't matter. None of it mattered anymore. It was the past and it was over. She had a new life now. A better life – yes it _was_ a better life. Harley twisted her hands up into her hair and squeezed her eyes shut, hissing to herself. It was a better life, it was, it was. She had been broken and now she was healing. She'd been wrong, her desires had been false. She was broken, but she could get better. It would take, it would. She was independent. Strong. She didn't need him. She belonged to herself.

She'd never felt so alone in her life.

Harley finally gave into the tears that had been threatening to spill, sobbing in great heaving gasps as she sunk onto her haunches in the shower stall, folding her arms over her knees and burying her head in her lap. The water pounded down on her head and shoulders, her pale skin flushed pink from the hot spray, her shoulders shaking violently as she poured out her grief in wretched tears.

She wondered if he missed her too.


	2. My Smile Is Just Skin Deep

**My Smile is Just Skin Deep**

Henshaw – known to most by his given name of Benjamin, or "Benny" – had seen a lot of weird stuff in his career as a henchman in Gotham.

After all, he'd worked on and off for the Joker for the last eight years. A remarkably long time, for one of the Joker's henches, but Henshaw had managed it by making sure he only came on the briefest of jobs – or "capers" as the boss called them – and of keeping his mouth well and truly buttoned.

But for all the many weird, bizarre, grotesque and crazy sights Henshaw had witnessed in that time, nothing had prepared him for what he now beheld.

The Joker stood in the middle of a large room, dressed in a weird ankle-length white – _dress_. He couldn't think of any other word to describe it, with its high collar and set of buttons running the entire length from neck to ankle. Of course, Henshaw always knew the boss was a bit queer – in fact, he'd been more than a little surprised when he'd taken up with that harlequin cookie a few years back – but he would never have pegged the Joker for a cross-dresser.

Henshaw tried not to stare as he entered the room with a basket full of red roses clutched in either hand. His buddy, Rocco – the fifth Rocco Henshaw had known in the last eight years, the Roccos never seemed very good at staying unnoticeable – carried two similar baskets, these filled with black roses. Henshaw hadn't even known that roses could come in black.

The Joker turned slowly in a circle, a wickedly sharp razor blade held aloft in each hand, surveying the room they were in with a delirious cackle. His step picked up until he spun in a sudden whirl, the skirt of his dress flaring up around his ankles. Beneath the dress, Henshaw saw he was wearing red and black striped socks and black stiletto high heels, and felt suddenly ill, as though he'd mistakenly hired gay porn.

"Ah ha ha ha haaaa," Joker sang, spreading his arms out wide as he spun. "Put on a _happy_ face!"

Henshaw stopped short and stared at his boss, jaw dangling open. The Joker came to a stop and then stared straight ahead towards the door of the lair, the ragged corners of his lately scarred mouth fixed upwards in a twisted grin, his purple eyes gazing vacantly at nothing. He giggled to himself and then fell silent, his arms by his sides, razor clutched tight in each one.

Henshaw was somewhat relieved to note the Boss' dress was spattered and stained with suspicious looking red blotches. Maybe some of the Boss was still in there after all.

"Er, Rocco, what happened to the Boss' sensa style?" he whispered as the Joker spun on his heel on the red and black tiled floor and strode towards a mirrored wall.

Rocco shrugged. "Boss seems to find it hard to stay on top that sorta stuff lately. All his suits got dirty but he never wanted 'em taken to the cleaners. Just dumped 'em out back. Those socks he's wearin' the last matchin' pair."

"Yeesh, what happened to him?" Henshaw felt oddly disturbed. The Boss had always taken real pride in his appearance, best-dressed guy Henshaw had ever seen, even if he did have odd taste in colour combinations.

Rocco dumped the roses down on a table pressed up against the wall and indicated Henshaw should do the same. Then Rocco withdrew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his brow while Henshaw leant up against the wall and pulled out his cigarettes, tapping one out.

"Dunno. He's been gettin' weirder and weirder for ages now. And knowin' the Joker, that's sayin' somethin'. Hasn't run a proper scheme in months. Yannow how he always used to be scribblin' things down, comin' up with crazy ideas?"

Henshaw nodded, inhaling. Rocco tucked his handkerchief away once more.

"Well, he don't do that no more."

Henshaw's eyes widened disbelievingly. One thing about the Joker was that he was always stir-crazy with ideas, 'strokes of creative genius' as he'd called them, and their recording came first and foremost above all else. At one time when there had been no writing material handy, Joker had taken a blade to a hench's back and deftly carved his thoughts there, putting a quick bullet through the hapless man's brain when he protested.

"'S'almost as though he's – I dunno – outta ideas."

Henshaw turned away with a slack lower lip, rubbing one hand over his stubbled jaw in shock. "Geeze… "

The two men turned to survey the room. The Joker had always had theatrical taste in décor, but this space was unusually bare and spartan, as unlike the Joker Henshaw knew as could be. Joker always had an extravagant bed, lots of comfortable couches, several refrigerators filled with junk food, a selection of intensely disturbing torture devices and a variety of carnival memorabilia in all colours of the rainbow. It had always creeped Henshaw out a little bit – nothing worse than staring clown faces with wide-opened mouths fixed to the legs of a Judas Cradle, painted purple with orange polka dots, right next to the bed strewn with miniature plushie dolls of the Boss that his girl was fixed on collecting.

This room was bare except for the table and a large plain desk. There wasn't even the usual makeshift stage complete with curtains that the Boss always said was for emergency use (whatever that meant). Just the black and red checked floor.

The lighting was weird too. The bulbs in the fixtures were red glass, throwing an unearthly fiery glow over the space, broken only by the dark shadows that crept in from the corners. The whole place was quiet and still – no old movies playing on a television set, no carnival music blaring out of a calliope and no cheery singing in the high-pitched voice of the Boss' girl.

Hey, come to think of it – where _was_ the Boss' girl?

The Boss was standing in front of the mirror, stroking his fingertips over his reflection. Henshaw thought with a twinge of strange hope this might be a sign of the old Boss returning – he always seemed kinda high on himself – but then the Joker just giggled insanely and begun unbuttoning his dress. Henshaw shot an alarmed look at Rocco who just shook his head sadly and tapped out a cigarette of his own.

The Boss pulled open his collar, revealing a twisted scar that covered his entire left shoulder and looked as though it extended down across his chest too. The Joker cooed as his fingertips poked and prodded at the mass of tissue, rubbing and stroking the marred flesh in a teasing fashion before he leant forward and licked his reflection.

Henshaw flinched. Who ever would have thought the Boss could get _weirder_.

"Rocco," Henshaw hissed as the Joker spun away from the mirror and danced over to his desk where he embedded the razors into the wood. "Where's that Quinn babe? Shouldn't she be able to help snap him out of this funk?"

Rocco snorted and flicked ash from the end of his cigarette. "Jeez, man, you been gone awhile. They busted up!"

Henshaw was so shocked he dropped his cigarette.

The Joker perched himself on the edge of the desk, humming softly under his breath, his eyes bulging and wild and his lacerated smile looking raw in the dim light. There wasn't even the usual ostentatious throne looming behind the desk. The Joker _always_ had a throne. Usually a hideous, garish thing in the shape of some creepy clown face. Henshaw had always _hated_ them, but as the Joker turned his head from side to side and picked up a small bottle from the desk and uncapped it, Henshaw thought he'd give his left nut just to see the Boss, in his classic purple suit, reclining in one. Because Henshaw had just realised the bottle the Joker had picked up was nail polish.

"The white bishop tramples the checkerboard underfoot and claims her land for his own!" The Joker sing-songed, carefully stroking the brush over his nails. "She yields with a smile and a sigh so sweet it would make a clown weep!"

"What the hell is he talking about?" Henshaw whispered to Rocco who again shrugged, then turned away, motioning for Henshaw to follow.

"None of us can figure it out anymore. But if you think that don't make any sense, check this out!"

Henshaw followed Rocco quietly, casting an uneasy glance back at the Joker who continued to cluck to himself and paint his nails. What had happened to the Joker who had always had something quick and sharp to say? The henches had all feared his barbed tongue, but somehow this senseless nonsense seemed worse. Rocco led Henshaw up to the shadowy walls and as they drew closer, Henshaw saw the walls were covered in straggled writing in a mottled shade of red.

Letters written in blood. Well, it wasn't something the Boss would be _squeamish_ about. But then he saw what the words read and felt a cold chill course through him.

"_Another pretty flower! Blossoming like billous blood billowing in beauty! Red and black that's the knack! Petals scatter and flatter and batter whipped cream skin screamed purple!"_

Henshaw had worked for a lot of Rogues in Gotham and one thing he knew was that they all prided themselves on Style.

But _none _of them more so than the Joker. The Joker had been as obsessive about his flair and theatricality as he was about the Bat. He was proud and conceited and considered it his responsibility to maintain a certain standard. Working for the Joker had been hard at times, and always terrifying, but Henshaw had also had a certain level of pride in the work. The Joker was never content to simply blend in – everything had to be perfectly conceived and executed. He considered his work his art and he was fully committed to that. As freaky as the Boss was, Henshaw respected that.

Staring at the nonsensical, childish rhymes sprawled across the wall, Henshaw shuddered, then turned away. He was reminded of how he'd felt when he'd gone to visit his grandfather, a former recipient of the Purple Cross, in the Home after he'd been struck down by Alzheimer's. The once proud and muscular war hero was then slumped in an old armchair, wizened and drooling, unable to recognise his own family.

Henshaw glanced back over to the Boss who was daintily waving his hands back and forth to dry his nails. Henshaw noted he'd painted them alternating black and red and cocked his head to the side, suddenly struck by a curious realisation.

"How long since she split?" He muttered to Rocco, who offered him his flask. Henshaw took a swig and Rocco scratched the back of his head.

"A year, maybe a little more."

"Is that about when the Boss started goin' weird – er?"

Rocco raised his head, his eyes suddenly wide as he pegged to what Henshaw was implying. "Uh – yeah, now that you mention it. Yeah, that's about when."

The Joker blew on his nails in a fey fashion and Henshaw pressed his eyes shut. He prayed that when he opened them again the Boss would be juggling those razor blades and launching into some strange gag. The Boss had _always_ had a witty punchline, a quick retort, or a mind-boggling observation to make a fellow bust a gut or poke his noodle with. But when he opened them again, the Joker was simply sitting on the desk, once more staring straight ahead of him with a vacant gaze. His teeth were clenched together in a rictus grin. It was creepy, disturbing and bizarre – it was also painfully sad.

"Boss looks thin," Henshaw noted the Joker's shrunken arms and Rocco nodded.

"Ain't been eatin' so much. Hell, she took carea all that stuff."

Harley had taken some getting used to in the beginning – she was loud, perky, demanding and stuck to the Boss like glue, no matter how hard he hit her or what hurtful things he said – but after awhile she became just part of the furniture. Henshaw had learned quickly it was best to remain unnoticed by her as well – she shared the Boss' sadistic sense of humour and the Boss was more than a little possessive of her. After a while, it was no longer just the Boss. It was the Boss and his moll and though the Boss never stopped hitting her and saying hurtful things, he never got rid of her either. In fact, Henshaw had more than once seen them laughing together in some shared pursuit, dancing the night away or sending the boys out so they could get some alone time, though Henshaw tried never to think too much about what that involved. Sometimes when they got back, Harley looked worse than she ever did when the Boss was mad at her, and seemed happier about it.

And fact was, she made the Boss laugh a whole lot. And if the Boss was laughing at her, he was less likely to go looking to his henchmen to give him a laugh or two.

Suddenly the Joker burst into a peal of scatty laughter, rocking back and forth on the desk like a deranged half-wit.

"You're never fully dressed without a smile!" He cackled, delving a hand into his pockets and withdrawing a pack of cards that he threw up into the air.

The cards fanned out and came tumbling down around them. As they fell, Henshaw saw they were all jokers – par for the course, but for one element. The left hand shoulder of the joker illustration was obliterated beneath a red splotch.

"A smile that stretches as long and wide as the Seine!" Joker threw himself back on the desk, kicking his legs and giggling to himself, twitching spasmodically. "And beneath the ivory tower shall we dance and dance and laugh!"

Henshaw had a sudden memory of the Boss from a job they'd done a few years back. They'd been making a movie – _The Death of Batman_. The Boss had been on fire. Truly inspired. He'd been full of frenetic, joyous energy taking the greatest delight in the smallest of details, even the selection of the perfect jodhpurs to wear on set. He'd seduced the naïve young actress into her role and played with the Bat's brain like it was a musical instrument he was prodigiously skilled at. Henshaw recalled a moment with the Boss in a white tuxedo jacket, standing before the cameras and calling out for _"Action"_. He'd been truly magnificent; as compelling and magnetic a force as an electrical surge.

Now look at him. His hair messy and uncombed, in a grubby, stained old dress, wasting away reciting half-remembered nursery rhymes instead of brutal witticisms, and dawdling time on painting his nails instead of cooking up something big and spectacular. Gone was the frantic magnificence of the Joker Gotham City had come to know and fear. All that was left was this empty shell of a clown, convulsing in delusional stupor.

The Boss had fallen apart. It was the saddest thing Henshaw had ever seen.

"Let's get outta here," he grumbled to Rocco who'd turned away out of respect to the Boss. "I need a drink."

Rocco gave a curt nod and together the two men turned back towards the exit, leaving the Joker writhing about on the desk, rubbing handfuls of joker cards against his body. Henshaw threw one last look back at him, then shook his head sorrowfully.

"I sure hope she comes back, real soon."


	3. Author's Note

_Well, I hope that was enjoyable – and that the last chapter was funny. It was meant to be. _

_If you're not up with what's going on, read the following comics to catch up:_

_Batman #663_

_Detective #837_

_Countdown (#51 - #01)_

_Batman: RIP (currently appearing in Batman, Detective, Nightwing and soon, Robin)_

_And here's a bit of an explanation:_

_This is just my affectionate and slightly parodying commentary on the current events in the comics. Grant Morrison is taking the Joker in new directions in the RIP storyline, taking away his theatrical flair and style, his cunning wit and dapper charm, and making him into a drooling, eye-rolling, cross-dressing serial killer who utters nonsensical phrases and finger paints with blood. I know, I know. _

_Yet, at the same time, Morrison seems to be subtly suggesting that the Joker has Harley on the mind – there is a predominance of red and black elements – including the colours he paints his nails and the roses. This may be feeding back into Batman #663 in which Joker set up an elaborate scheme designed to eventually kill Harley because she was the one element tying him to his old identity, the one thing that he loved and he considered that his last weakness. In the end he decided he couldn't kill her, but she had to be scarred like him. She agreed, but Batman stopped it. The issue ended with Harley shooting Joker in the shoulder._

_Since then there have been hints that that wound may have killed him temporarily. The references to Paris here are inspired by my pal zhinxy saying "you just know if she ever caused him to flatline, he'd take her on a trip to Paris!" It's the sort of thing that Joker respects and would even consider romantic._

_Oh and he's been playing with Joker cards that have red splotches on their shoulders, possibly another hint to that event._

_Anyway, it amused me to think that this odd, jibbering, unstylish state Joker is in may be directly related to the fact he and Harley are no longer together. That she became so much a part of his life on such an unconscious level that her prolonged absence has affected him to the point this is the outcome. That basically, Joker is falling apart without her balancing influence and supportive love. _

_It's not that I really think that's what Morrison is getting at, it's just so heartbreaking to see our dapper and charming J behaving so... out of character. With all the reunion hints, I just found it hilariously funny to 'find a reason' for it in Harley's absence. I think Morrison just thinks he's being really, really clever and innovative with Joker's charcter while the rest of us tear our hearts out in grief over seeing him in such a broken state. That is - it's so out of character, us fans are going why has Mistah J had this meltdown? But Morrison isn't honestly suggesting he's had a meltdown, he's just writing him in a really awful way._

_I would love to say I am exaggerating Joker's behaviour in this chapter, but that is HONESTLY how Morrison is writing him._

_As for Harley, well she left Gotham and wound up in Metropolis, an act I speculate was to take her away from the Joker so she wouldn't be tempted to visit him in Arkham and such. Since then, she's taken up with the Athenian Women's Shelter and has been talking a lot of jive about how she's now one with the Goddess and is over all her past delusions. Yet, there have been many hints she's 'protesting too much' and many hints the life she's living is not that satisfying to her as well as a few subtle clues Mistah J is still very much on her mind (and at least one not so very subtle clue in Countdown). Certainly, Harley's boisterous nature and exuberance make her an ill-fit for the touchy-feely spiritual hoo-ha of the Amazons and I have a feeling she misses her life of crime and her Puddin' more than she will ever freely admit. The Countdown incident I refer to is when they thought they were all on their own earth and Harley went to visit Joker in Arkham, only for him not to recognise her and she was utterly distraught. The reason he didn't recognise her was because they were in an alternate dimension and it wasn't 'her' Joker. She bawled 'that wasn't my Puddin' back there!' and was inconsolable._

_I also wanted to address the notion that Harley is a disempowered victim, an attitude often extended to people who **choose **to stay in abusive relationships. The belief being that there could never be a **conscious** choice about it and that it's impossible that people have decided to stay with the relationship because they are fulfilled on other levels and consider the abuse something they can handle and accept. It doesn't mean they're not aware it's unhealthy; it just means they've made a decision **for themselves** and I do think Harley did this because as far as she was concerned, being with the Joker made it worth it. _

_Anyway. The first part is a little serious but hopefully the second has you giggling. No offence to anyone who thinks Morrison is the bee's knees. In all honesty, he's one of the only mainstream writers who seem to understand this relationship, so I can forgive him a lot for that. I was just having affectionate fun. _

_Finally – I absolutely intend no homophobic sentiment with the over-emphasis on Joker's effeminate behaviour. I am myself a queer woman who socialises almost exlusively amonst queers. I just think Morrison is stereotyping alternative or non-heteronormative behaviour as being effeminate and is a little stuck in the eighties with his belief that men wearing high heels and painting their nails is OMG THE HEIGHT OF WEIRDNESS OMG! When really, everyone's doing it these days. As Nathan Lane said of Mel Brooks in regards The Producers: "I don't think he's ever met a gay man in his life"._


End file.
